


Remember Me, Love

by RedFlagsAndDiamonds



Series: Gradence: Tales of Terror [1]
Category: Bram Stoker's Dracula (1992), Dracula & Related Fandoms, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: (strongly implied) - Freeform, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Child Murder, Flashbacks, Food Porn, Horror, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Reading Aloud, Reincarnation, Seduction, Torture, Vampire Sex, Victorian Attitudes, eventually, period typical xenophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-02-09 16:23:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18641737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedFlagsAndDiamonds/pseuds/RedFlagsAndDiamonds
Summary: Credence Barebone travels to Romania to complete an estate purchase for a half-Irish prince - though his surroundings are filled with a strange familiarity, and his handsome, enigmatic host seems to hold more than one secret.A gradence au of F.F. Coppola's "Dracula."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Child of the Night](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/477466) by Scribe. 



> What can I say?  
> I drew on multiple sources for this one, but my chief inspiration was “Child of the Night” by Scribe Mozell, a homoerotic retelling of Coppola’s 1992 “Dracula.” I genuinely believe it’s one of the best fics ever written for any fandom - and will remain tragically unfinished since Scribe’s passing in 2014. I hope she would have enjoyed my humble endeavor. <3  
> The original text of “Child” has been removed from the angelfire website, leaving a short excerpt, but the first (and so far, only) volume is available from amazon with some pretty dazzling cover art.
> 
> Other references include Bram Stoker’s novel (of course,) the 1931 Universal Horror classic, the 1977 BBC adaptation, and “Dark Prince”, a 2000 TV movie (one of the more accurate depictions of Vlad III - some have considered it an unofficial Buffy spin-off, as Rudolf Martin portrayed Vlad in both. You can find it on youtube.)
> 
> The title is taken from “Shrike” by Hozier

 

It was, Credence decided after staring over-long through the smudged glass windows of the railway car, exactly as if he and his fellow travelers had left behind modernity - crossing some invisible barrier with the last bridge over the Danube, and entering some place not unlike the books of his childhood.

 

Green slopes gave way to snow-capped mountain peaks, overlooking a meadow of wildflowers or an orchard laden with every imaginable blossom, and he fancied for a moment that a cluster of pear buds would grace a parlor table beautifully.

 

No one in the Barebone family had been able to comprehend his love of flowers.

 

Eventually Credence managed to tear himself from admiring the landscape, thoughts of his childhood home driving his focus towards the task at hand. 

After all, if he were to maintain himself and not go back, begging, to that house (his throat closed uncomfortably at the prospect) then he’d best develop a head for a business and not muss up his first assignment on behalf of the firm.

 

Especially when such an illustrious client was ripe for the picking.

 

The lumbering of the train provided a soothing rhythm as he leafed through the cache of papers accumulated in preparation for the journey - the deeds of estate in question, his own note of recommendation from Thompkins and Hawkins, a few photographs of the properties (which had cost his employers a pretty penny) - until his eyes settled on Robert’s last few letters.

Mr. Hawkins had allowed him to carry them along on the journey with the hope that study might acclimate him to the customs of his host in advance (“Every whim is to be catered to slavishly, every desire met, no matter how eccentric-“ the elderly solicitor had wheezed, eyeless behind his thick spectacles. “- after all, a plum catch such as this comes only once in a lifetime.”) but Credence had retained the missives more out of sentimental value.

 

He scanned the final letter once more, seizing upon the segment which had initially intrigued him above the rest;

 

_… it is on further examination of the place that the odd reaction of the peasants - which I had taken for foreign superstition, as you may recall - seems to become clearer and more understandable. The fortification is quite ancient, but no reconstruction or renovation appears to have been undertaken, or indeed necessary. And though it must stand to reason that such an immense structure still in residence - it quite outshines the castles at Windsor - should command a veritable army of household staff, I’ve yet to glimpse more than three at the most. Yet the bed is made, my clothing washed and pressed to exacting specifications, and every meal done up and served in astonishing magnificence as if I were a calling aristocrat and not merely a lowly clerk in a not-very-large law office (forgive my deprecation of our mutual sponsor, but you will be familiar with my opinions on the matter.)_

 

_The prince is courteous if a trifle formal, and his social niceties appear to have suffered somewhat from isolation with western civilization - though a man of our own empire, as I have related to you previously, it would seem as though the old adage of our grandmothers proves true, and bad blood will out. Only the other evening I was drawn into the most extraordinary conversation; the more immediate matters of banking and fiduciary entitlement seen to, I became aware that his attention had been drawn to something quite outside the subject at hand. You will recall the portrait which you so kindly gifted me as a memento of a dear and, I hope with all my considerable affection, lasting friendship - well, it has occupied a place at my temporary lodgings beside the ink wells and such (I know how you do fancy your calligraphic arts) and while I had been dispensing with the business matters above, the prince appeared to take notice of your picture - I say take notice, but the man was positively transfixed. I thought, briefly, that he might be on the verge of a seizing fit - many of these old noble families suffer from falling sicknesses - but perhaps it was merely astonishment at the concept of photography._

_Whatever his interest, he began to ask me odd questions - did I believe in destiny or fate, and something about time altering itself for one’s own purpose? I confess I did not listen with great care, but was more concerned with the safety of the portrait, for he had begun to grasp it with such force that the glass had splintered._

_Having rescued you from his clutches, I attempted to turn our discourse back to my reason in coming, but the prince seemed so entirely preoccupied by the object that I must admit to no small degree of vexation…_

 

 

Credence sighed, troubled. Time and time again he had sifted through those letters, finding nothing more than what could be excused without difficulty as the eccentricity of continental foreigners. 

Not a single clue to suggest why poor Robert had arrived home early, his wits entirely snapped, leading of course to his current residence within a lunatic asylum. Poor darling, he'd never _seemed_ feeble minded…

Still, perhaps it was a blessing, however tragic - had Robert not returned in his pitiful condition, surely Credence would not have found himself traveling across Europe to complete the transaction, as per the Prince’s specific request.

 

After disembarking the train, it was nearly a day's ride by post carriage to Bistritz, and almost as far again towards the border, where his host had assured him - in a handsomely worded note, delivered by a strangely terrified looking innkeeper - that a coach would be waiting to bring him the remaining distance to the castle.

Credence couldn’t help but find the whole adventure rather thrilling - to think, princes and castles, still within reach of the modern age! And if Robert’s account was to be believed, apparently undisturbed since their days of glory, centuries before.

 

The other schoolboys might have teased him for that. Despite his fascination with times past, it wasn’t the history of battles or treaties which intrigued him - more so the idea of men, women, children filling a keep, farming, cooking, weaving, carrying out the minutiae of daily life which chroniclers seemed, sadly, to find unworthy of record.

 

It became quickly apparent, through the ride towards the border of Bukovina, that Robert’s tales of the local superstition had not been exaggerated. Credence had only to mention the Borgo Pass, never mind Abhartach Castle, and the other inhabitants of the carriage seemed to panic. One elderly woman in particular seemed seized by such a convulsion of alarm that she grasped his arm, crossing herself and jabbering in rapid, panicked Hungarian which he had no hope of following. Eventually she was drawn away and quieted by her traveling companions, but the moment left him shaken nonetheless.

On entering the mountain pass, several of the passengers offered gifts that, on closer examination, proved to be cloves of garlic, and the old woman herself pressed upon him her own crucifix, with an air that indicated no refusal, however humble, would be accepted.

 

_“Az anyád kedvéért, ha nem a sajátod.”_

 

For the sake of your mother, if not your own.

 

Startled, Credence slipped the trinket into the pocket of his waistcoat, the bundle of nerves twisting in his belly forcing him to wonder if allowing the coach to carry him to Bukovina with the others - as they so fervently seemed to wish - would not be the better thought.

 

He had been just on the cusp of voicing this consideration, when the screams of the others half-drowned the snarls of a massive animal, all grey fur and bloodied muzzle, launching itself against the side of the diligence. The carriage rocked on it’s springs, prompting further noises of terror from the occupants, and one bearded man crossed himself frantically, wailing something like _“Stregoi!”_

Before he could do more than cry out in protest, Credence found himself pushed from the vehicle like a sack of refuse, while one of the Serbs atop the roof tossed down his two paltry travelling bags as the carriage sped away, leaving him at the mercy of the growling terror.

Yellow eyes fixed him with a paralyzing stare, and he struggled to remember one of the psalms beaten into him as a child - unbelievably, just when death seemed so near, they had all vanished from his mind.

A glob of spittle dripped onto Credence’s knee as the wolf crept closer, it’s swollen gums exposed above teeth dripping with the remains of it’s last meal. A few sobbing breaths escaped as he leaned into the rock at his back, surrendering himself to his fate…

_“Spät!”_ a cavernous voice boomed across the shallow clearing. The wolf cowered, whimpering, it’s shaggy head ducked under a gore-smeared paw as it scampered into the trees, meek as a shy puppy.

Reeling from his sudden escape, Credence watched numbly, as if from underwater, as a wide, old fashioned carriage, not unlike a berline, drawn by six horses rattled up the dirt path. The sun had begun to descend, but the reddish light fell across the backs of the animals, casting a mirror-like sheen over their coal-black coats.

The coach shuddered to a halt near to the little outcropping where he lay, shivering - though it had barely come to a full stop before the driver swung himself down. 

He was a large man, almost terrifyingly so, and bulging muscle could be seen even through his loose linen shirt. A wide belt fastened in several places down his torso, not unlike armor, and thick leather vambraces encircled his wrists - though the joints were as wide around as the ankles of most men. Rapidly fading sunlight gleamed off his bare pate.

“You are him?” he grunted, in heavily accented, wooden English, and when he spoke Credence noticed flashes of yellowed, crooked teeth.

“I…” he began weakly - events were moving far too quickly and in a much more frightening manner than he could have expected.

“… I was told to expect transport to the castle from the Borgo -“

As if he weighed no more than the cloth dolls his youngest sister had been so fond of, the driver heaved him up from the ground in both enormous hands and studied his face carefully. One might have believed he was searching for some kind of flaw.

At last he grinned, sighing as if well satisfied by something, and clapped the boy’s shoulders in a friendly manner. 

Credence released a long-held breath.

“Inside - the night is chill, and my lord is impatient. Stay under the furs - be warm.”

With this brusque counsel, he found himself all-but lifted into the berline - but gently, like a well-loved child - and deciding it would be wiser to heed his unusual escort rather than not, buried himself up to the shoulders in the pile of blankets that covered one of the velvet seats.

He found them to be a lush, smooth mink; the temptation to caress his own cheek with a handful of the pelt was considerable and not fought off with ease. Further exploration turned up a small flask of plum brandy, and while he didn’t indulge himself - it wouldn’t do to meet a client when intoxicated, however lightly - it was reassuring to know it was at hand, should the growing cold become unbearable.

He must have dozed while the carriage rumbled up the mountainside, as it seemed he had only blinked his eyes a moment before they were ascending a winding path uphill. Credence could have forgiven himself for the lapse - the late hour, stress, and being surrounded by warm, soft things all made sleep quite inviting - but childhood strictures against slothfulness were ingrained deeply.

Unlike other crenelations he had glimpsed throughout a lifetime of perusing art galleries and woodcuts in history books, the castle had none of the showy grandeur that seemed necessary to contemporary royalty - situated at the very height of the mountain top, thick walls surrounding a watchtower, and with the river at it’s back below a steep precipice, it could not be mistaken for anything but an armored fortress, intended to keep invaders well at bay.

Once again Robert was proven correct in his description - the stone had barely begun to crumble, and in a part of the world infamous for it’s earthquakes…

The carriage was steered into a wide courtyard, the horses clattering over the river stones paving the ground. Abruptly it rattled to a stop, the door was thrown open, and a pair of big hands reached in to draw him out, as carefully as if he’d been a sleepy child.

His driver smiled again, all glittering eyes and dirty teeth.

“In with you, _kačiatko_ \- he’ll be displeased with me if you’re kept any longer.”

There was no hint of irritation in his tone, but Credence wasn’t able to fight off an odd sensation of confusion, as if he were at the center of some enormous joke he couldn’t begin to understand.

He made his way up towards the main doors - the same crest adorning the side of the carriage, a dragon entwining an oak tree, had been carved into the facade some centuries before - noting the rattle of rusted metal as a bolt was moved somewhere inside, and one half of the entrance drifted open with an echoing creak.

 

Torches were burning in braziers along the walls, and barely illuminated a tapestry or two - a heavy rug, almost the length of the hall, stretched underfoot and - dear God, it was… it was smeared with…

Credence blinked, rubbing at his eyes a moment to clear the abrupt illusion - it must have been, brought on by over-tiredness, because the carpet was spotless now, woven in blue and gold threads. Not so much a drop of…

 

“Mister… Barebone?”

He spun at the murmur of his name, and noticed the faint silhouette of a man beside the massive doors he had only just passed through. Surely he would have seen him on entering, but his mind was already playing wild games…

 

The stranger moved into the torchlight, and Credence’s breath died in his throat.

 

He was familiar with what the French termed _deja vu,_ but had never expected to experience it himself. Perhaps that wasn’t correct, didn’t explain what he felt then, because it wasn’t only a vague recognition, but a storm of crippling fear, the sound of whinnying horses, quills scratching on parchment, hands on his skin, pain so dreadful he thought he might go blind with it, metal clashing on metal, a heady perfume of incense and wild lavender, and something else, something bone-deep and all-consuming, and- 

 

“Are you unwell?”

 

Trembling, Credence shook his head.

“No, only - only a momentary distraction, sir. I-I’m sorry.”

 

“Do not apologize.”

 

He plucked one of the torches from the wall and stepped closer. 

 

_Dark… dark eyes…_ Credence realized, with another wave of dizziness.

 

The stranger grasped at his arm, preventing him from crumpling to the floor in shock. Had he possessed more of his wits in that moment, Credence might have noticed the chill of the man’s flesh through his woolen jacket.

 

“Forgive me - come above-stairs, you need food and rest.” 

 

He paused, and smiled slowly.

 

“…You’ve no idea how long I have waited for you.”

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

Credence wasn’t able to explain, even to himself, why he had expected an old man - Robert had never specified to that effect in any of his correspondence, but maybe it was only his limited experience serving the firm; most of the clientele were rarely under sixty, often over-fed and afflicted by gout.

 

Prince Abhartach was of another kind altogether. Admittedly, the cut of his hair and manner of dress was more in line with a painting of Mrs. Barebone’s grandfather - she had kept it above the mantel all throughout Credence’s frigid childhood, and the piercing stare bearing down from the portrait had been enough to send him to sleep with nightmares on more than one evening - but in all other respects could hardly be considered forty or older. There were no signs at all of the pallid softness that had come over the Western rulers in the past few decades, the sort which made them all look as if they were moments from dropping with consumption… though Credence supposed all the idle chatter and rich food saw to that. No, despite the modernization of his appearance - well, when compared to the local peasantry - the prince more than fulfilled Credence’s boyish fantasies of Great Men, the sort that had always fascinated him as a child; Ajax, William Wallace, Saint George… He was certain Abhartach would stand among them nicely. It would not have looked out of place for one of his hands - large, scarred, a silver-and-black signet ring riding one knuckle - to be seen grasping a broadsword or the reins of a warhorse. 

 

The only great oddity, Credence decided as he scrutinized the man from his seat before the enormous fireplace, were his fingernails - long to the point of being claw-like, and cut peculiarly sharp. Curious. He’d read, in those books which were his joy, that the Mandarins kept long nails to prove the leisure assured by their status, but to his knowledge no European noble had ever adopted that particular custom…

 

“Bruno informed me of your encounter on the road.” he mentioned, crossing behind the armchair Credence occupied beside the fireplace - a great stone sculpture of monstrous size, in the image of a bearded man roaring in anger, or perhaps pain, while the flames danced in the hollow created by his gaping maw.

He paused in nursing his cup of bitter tea, confused at the name before realizing. Of course - the coachman.

“Oh… it was no matter really, no harm was done - I took a worse fright once from a captive fox in the London Menagerie -“

“You’re dissembling, Mr. Barebone - the wolves are quite fierce to those they find unfamiliar, at least at first glance; and no doubt the local peasants with their rural folk stories played havoc upon your imagination. However, it’s past now - the animals will come to know you soon enough. Put the incident from your mind and let us speak of more pleasant things.”

 

He would consider, later, the unusual choice of words from his host, but at that moment Credence became painful aware of his professional duties; setting the drink aside in a hurry, he reached for his valise and began frantically shuffling through the paperwork therein.

“I - I have copies of each property account, and each individual lease draft, if your Highness wishes to add modifications to-“

“Please - no talk of business transactions, we have all night.” the prince interrupted his nervous, ill-learned legal speech. “And I beg of you - call me Percival. It’s the name my mother gave me and does give the preferable depiction of a man, rather than a walking title.”

Credence’s jaw worked, his mind spinning in confusion. Mr. Hawkins had of course warned him that this client might be atypical and at times unorthodox, but this was entirely out of the natural order of things.

“As you wish… sir.” he concluded softly, choosing an honorific at the half-way point, which did not go unnoticed by his host.

The man smiled with an unusually fond familiarity. 

“I hope you’ll not limit yourself to the confines of your own country’s mores - the household is congenial but my existence within these walls has been… lonesome. There have been times that I long for contact with the world, and I must confess, I quite enjoy hearing you speak, Credence.”

The little clerk blushed, his eyes round with surprise, and the prince softened his tone.

“Forgive me - I realize my insistence on Christian names may seem presumptive, but… I feel as if I’ve known you much longer than an hour.”

“It’s quite alright.” Credence replied automatically. It was not in his nature to object much, and besides, if a man of such obvious natural superiority in station wished to use his given name, who was he to complain?

 

_Some adopt such a habit with those they consider beneath them… children, servants, animals…_ He considered, struggling not to think of his own mother. 

_But… it doesn’t_ feel _like condescension, not from him…_

 

“You must know a great deal of the history in this region, sir?” he inquired at last, hopelessly drawing the conversation to his own passion.

 

The prince smiled indulgently, though his look was tinged with something near sadness.

“Every detail, I’m afraid. Perhaps too much.” 

 

His tone shifted suddenly, growing intrigued.

 

“This interests you?”

 

The old self-consciousness welled up, and Credence chewed at his pink lower lip nervously.

 

“It’s silly, I suppose…”

 

“Not at all. Some people - old souls - are often drawn to the past.”

 

Something must have shown on Credence’s face, because the statement was quickly amended.

 

“… Are you troubled by the thought?”

 

He swallowed, uncertain. His mother certainly wouldn’t have held with ideas of that nature. Just the suggestion would have been greeted with accusations of blasphemy.

 

“… Only out of habit - I’ve heard of some eastern superstitions, and - and thought perhaps it might explain aspects of life that seem… unexplainable. Certain sensations, and - and dreams, I suppose.”

 

As he spoke, Credence became increasingly aware of the Prince’s intent gaze, and shyness forced him to search for a different point of focus.

 

A bolt of lightning slashed across the mist covered sky, and illuminated the stained glass set in the casement, providing his rescue; the inlaid images were of the crude kind often glimpsed in ancient chapels or great houses, but the colors and shimmer of the glass made up for the lack with their brilliance.

The central panel seemed to depict a battle of some kind beneath a waning moon, a tall, bearded man astride a warhorse of monstrous size, the animal screaming as it reared onto it’s hind legs. The rider had buried a thick lance to the hilt inside an exotic foot soldier, while peasants cowered in awe beneath a forest of oddly-shaped trees.

 

“An ancestor, perhaps?” he inquired hesitantly, well aware that his abrupt pivot could be considered rudeness. “I couldn’t help but see a resemblance…”

 

Far from seeming offended, the prince actually smiled - albeit with a complacency that his guest found difficult to comprehend.

 

“My father’s line was… an old one. We conceived a pact betwixt ourselves and God to defend the church from It’s enemies… you might say the arrangement was found to be somewhat one-sided.”

 

“Robert - um, Mr. Renfield suggested that it was through your mother than you entered the English line?”

 

“From a village just beyond the Irish cliffs - the name would mean nothing to you, not now. It was through chance their paths crossed… or fate, some would say. But please; these dreams you spoke of, they… intrigue me.”

 

Realizing he was not to escape the questioning he had allowed himself to wander into, Credence uneasily wet his lips.

 

“They aren’t… well, some might believe I’m mad, Mother did… but they never seem to be the sort that other people speak of. They’re only dreams of _life_ , a different time or place, I’ve never been certain, but only an ordinary life…”

 

“Where you were happy?” the prince suggested in a gentle tone, and Credence nodded.

 

“There are always words - words written in ink, on a page, but I can never quite make them out… and feathers on my skin, brushing against me…”

 

His listener nodded. “Somehow that hardly seems surprising - but tell me more.”

 

Credence rose from his seat by the fire, somehow unaware that his discomfort had begun to steadily fade, and crossed to the window. His fingertip began tracing over the outline of the horse and rider.

 

“Voices - no, there’s only one, someone calling after me, shouting something, and I _want_ to answer, but…but it’s as if they were very far away, or I were too near something much louder… and… and there was blood once, blood smeared over a rich carpet. I don’t like to think of that too much, and I don’t have that particular nightmare often, thank goodness… but it’s not the worst… I suppose I shouldn’t fret so much, I understand many people have the same sort of dream, but it always leaves me in a cold sweat…”

 

“And what is that?” came the whispered, almost hissed entreaty.

 

“Falling.”

 

Credence’s back was turned to the prince, and so he did not see the anguish that twisted the man's face, or the way he bit at his knuckles, trembling.

 

“It’s as if… as if I’m plummeting from an enormous height, but I’ll never land. And the strangest thing is, I’m not at all frightened. I know I should be, but there’s always another emotion that smothers the fear -“

 

“Sorrow.” the prince concluded for him, and Credence turned in vague surprise.

 

“Yes… it - I don’t believe I’ve ever been truly happy, and sadness was something I’d come to accept… but this is always different, it’s grief and despair, and - and I think sometimes it might kill me before the fall can… so in a way, death would be welcome, if it could stop the pain…”

 

He shivered, and seemed to wake as if from a trance.

 

“I can’t explain it, though. Compared to others, I’ve suffered very little.”

“And yet you believe happiness something you’ve never been granted? What of your childhood, your parents - they say youth should be an idyllic time?”

 

Credence stood helpless by the window, floundering, but before he could construct a reply that would avoid chafing at the shame just inside his ribs, a rooster screeched somewhere down the mountainside. Credence wondered a moment how the creature had been able to detect the dawn through the rainstorm outside - but perhaps all living things had an acute sensitivity to certain times and things, drawing towards their own purpose in life.

 

“Forgive me -“ the prince murmured, rising from his carved chair with the ease of some great cat. “- it was unspeakably careless to keep you awake so long. Come, I’ll show you to your room.”

 

It was a long walk through cathedral-like halls and a wide staircase of laid stone, though it’s use was apparently rare; cobwebs were draped thick from the vaulted ceiling to the floor. 

Something skittered past his feet and Credence startled like a frightened pigeon, but nothing could be seen in the shadows - not the rat he feared or some other horror lurking unseen, in this dark place which unexpectedly seemed so sinister and friendless…

“You’re well?” the prince called softly from where he had paused on the stair, the torch he grasped throwing wild patterns on the walls. 

Credence nodded apologetically, but found his advancement baffled by a curtain of the same cobweb - but… 

He stared at the webbing, then back at the prince. Undoubtedly the man would have had to pass through the tangle, but not a single rip or tear could be seen amid the complex strands.

“Ah - wait a moment.”

 

There was a clanging of metal, prompting memories that Credence could not entirely welcome, of his sisters hanging the kitchen pots to dry, but the thoughts were interrupted as the prince thrust a spear through the cobwebs and tore them aside, before replacing the weapon in the grip of a suit of ancient armor. The plates had rusted solid some centuries before, and the lance itself was no exception - in his bemusement, Credence could only infer that the man’s strength must be prodigious.

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than a round-bodied insect - obviously the creator of the destroyed curtain - scurried up the stone wall beside Credence’s cheek. He reared back with a startled chirp, and was halted by a firm arm curling around his shoulders.

 

_He_ is _strong then,_ Credence thought, _terribly strong, and… my god, his skin - so cold - I can feel the chill through his coat…_

 

“Only a spider, spinning his web for the unwary fly…” the prince murmured to him, smiling only a little, a thumb petting soothingly over his arm with familiarity that Credence should - must- protest, but… but it felt so lovely, in ways he didn’t dare explain.

 

“…but you are safe with me.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Abhartach is the name of a mythological Irish king who became the central figure of his country's primary vampire folk tale - which, some have theorized, would eventually help inspire Bram Stoker.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this is worth the wait. Note the change in chapter count - this thing has decided to become much more elaborate than I had planned, and take full advantage of my obsession with historical fiction.
> 
> Some warnings: there's strongly implied emotional/mental abuse in this one (not between the boys) and suggested murder of a child at the very end. If you'd prefer more detail before reading, message me at https://shakespeareia.tumblr.com/ask

Credence had expected to be lodged in the guest quarters, something suited to a lowly clerk attending to business matters. These accommodations were quite the opposite.

 

He turned about the chamber, awestruck at the ornately carved ebony bedposts, the velvet and brocade hangings, the thick, rich wolf pelt draped over a welcoming chair beside the fire.

 

“But - but sir, shouldn’t you have this room?”

 

His host replaced the torch in a waiting brazier, and Credence couldn’t help but notice the prince’s sudden reluctance to meet his gaze.

 

“I’ve not slept here in years, I’m afraid… Too many memories.”

 

A chill of guilt swept down his backbone. Had there been a princess once, someone painful now to recall - and with his stubborn modesty, perhaps Credence had torn open still-tender wounds?

 

“Oh- forgive me, I didn’t realize -“

 

He was waved into silence, and blushed furiously.

 

“No apologies are necessary, I assure you - broken hearts are not, perhaps, incapable of healing. But I will not keep you any longer tonight; sleep as late as you wish in the morning, and we will discuss further matters. The servants are available at any hour, should you require anything.” he nodded towards a velvet bell-pull, quite recently installed to judge by the style, and Credence thanked him shyly.

 

“You’re too kind, sir.”

 

Something like agony flashed through the prince’s eyes, but he only inclined his head politely.

 

“Then sleep well, Credence… and dream well.”

 

Then he slipped through the heavy ebony door and was gone, his shadow dancing in the firelight before rushing after him.

 

Somewhat shaken, Credence stared after him, lost in a sea of wonders. 

 

_What an odd man… odd, but… compelling?_

 

 

Thunder boomed as the storm continued raging outside, and with a quavering heart he attempted to focus himself towards unpacking his little valise - he didn’t own much to begin with, making travel a simple affair - and discovering, with some dismay, that his shaving glass seemed to have vanished. Perhaps it was still perched on the washstand in his garrett room above the butchery - it wouldn’t be the first time he’d been thoughtless, a voice distressingly similar to Mrs. Barebone’s acid purr chided in his mind, and he tightened his lips in a futile attempt to stop his chin from trembling.

She had no bearing on his life any longer - he was free.

Well, it was no matter as to the mirror - he'd only begun shaving out of expectation, anyway; his face had remained stubbornly, girlishly smooth since his childhood. Some might have called his blood weak, but secretly he couldn’t help being thankful - the idea of wiry hair sprouting from his chin had always made him shudder a little.

 

Toiletries set aside, he slipped out of his jacket with a sigh of relief, and began unknotting the black crepe necktie that made him feel not unlike an undertaker on some days. His cuffs and collar were removed and discarded, though neatly, on an exquisitely carved linen chest, but when he began searching for a water ewer to clean his face and neck, it proved impossible to find.

Filled with a sudden worry he couldn’t place, Credence tugged at the servant’s bell, though he had only to wait less than a moment before the door creaked open and a small figure slipped into the room, as if they had been waiting eagerly in the corridor for such a opportunity.

 

He thought, at first, that she must be a child, but the grey hair and care-worn lines creasing her face belied that within a moment. A dwarf then?

 

He tried to avert his eyes to the floor, terrified of offending with an inconsiderate stare, but his concern was staved off instantly by the expression on her minute face - like Bruno in the mountain pass, she radiated sheer, helpless joy, as if of a child receiving a long-awaited gift. 

 

_“C'est vrai, alors. Ma petite colombe, tu m'as tellement manqué! Laisse-moi te regarder!”_ she murmured eagerly, beckoning him down to his knees so that she might caress a dark curl behind his ear.

 

Credence’s head spun with confusion, as he silently cursed his educational shortcomings. French, no less? It made little sense, but there must be a reasonable explanation…

 

“You called me?” she chirped at last like a songbird, and he quickly found his apprehension beginning to melt. Explaining, haltingly, the room’s apparent deficiency, he realized her smile had shifted from open delight to a kind-hearted deviousness.

“You would not rather bathe?”

Surprised, he allowed her to lead him to the small alcove near the bed, hung with drapes which disguised themselves among the bed hangings - he doubted, in fact, if he would have realized it’s existence were he not specifically enlightened.

The walls were of smooth river stone, polished no doubt by the heat from the furnace beside the washtub - a great wood-paneled thing that dwarfed Mrs. Barebone’s copper-lined tub, though neither he or any of the other children had been permitted to touch that. 

A fire danced merrily in the stone hearth, although, curiously, the room was vastly lit by wax candles set in iron candelabrums, which threw fluttering, golden light across the linen bath sheets and the rose petals laid in a glittering bowl of Venetian glass.

Steam was already rising from the water rippling inside the tub, and Credence realized - with a pang of guilt - that the small servant must have trudged back and forth for hours with a wooden bucket until the vessel was filled.

She had began snapping apart a few sticks of cinnamon and sprinkling the fragments into the water, filling the tiny chamber with their aroma.

“Madam -“ he began, only slightly frantic; “- there’s no need to trouble yourself -“

“ _Chut, mon précieux_. It is a pleasing thing.” she chided him gently. “It is many years since I have tended to anyone.”

Humbled, he stood aside and allowed her to putter about, until everything was sweet-smelling and a hazy lassitude had begun to weight his eyelids from the heat.

“Be as long as you wish.” she smiled, patting his hand. “Time is of little concern here.”

 

Watching her slip past the velvet drapes back into the bedchamber, as he had the prince, Credence couldn’t prevent a few strange thoughts that, back among the bustle of London, would have made him fear for his own sanity. As yet, every person within the battlements had given an impression of great familiarity, as if he had not only been expected but anticipated, and with great eagerness. It could not be an impatience to close the sale, for the prince had seemed less anxious to continue their negotiations on behalf of the firm than to discuss his guest’s nighttime stupor.

However, Credence rapidly concluded, before he could allow that particular train of thought to depart anywhere more alarming, it was hardly his place to question the behavior of those above his station.

With another quiet sigh, he finished undressing completely, removing his spectacles and laying them carefully on an intricate side table, and tentatively stepped into the tub.

The warmth pinked his skin, melting away the discomfort as he lowered himself into the water, barely stifling a moan. God in his Heaven, but how was he meant to content himself with the occasional meager wash after he returned to London - slouched awkwardly in his landlady’s old hip bath, wrapped in a damp sheet no less, and the stale cistern water frigid to the touch?

 

He decided it would be best not to fret over things that could not be helped, and instead enjoy his present good fortune.

 

With a blissful sigh, Credence allowed his head to fall back, his curls rippling out across the surface, and he fancied for a moment - in what was almost certainly a fit of delirium, brought about by an excess of pleasure - that he must have resembled one of Mr. Waterhouse’s nymphs, tempting Hylas. Giggling now, he kicked his leg up from the bath’s warm embrace, simply for the pleasure of observing the water stream down his milk-white skin, every drop turned to molten gold by the candlelight. 

 

He wondered, for a moment, if this would not be a splendid place for lovers to hold one another, eyes fever bright and rose petals stuck to their wet skin - perhaps some past lord of the castle, weary and muddied from riding, wiling away hours with a fortunate paramour in his arms… and that beloved, whoever they might have been, would caress his body with sweet-smelling leaves, even playfully sluice water through his long hair until the prince grew impatient and drew him close -

 

_“Was the hunt fruitful?”_

 

_“In a way, though I brought back no meat…” he smiled wryly, with a hint of cruelty. “… I suspect the beast was diseased.”_

 

_He curled up against his lover’s firm chest, delicate fingers playing idly over a nipple. A blow from some enemy’s blade had broken the skin long ago, and now the sensitive flesh was bisected by a jagged scar._

 

_“What was_ _the animal?”_

 

_Percival's large hands unexpectedly grasped his buttocks and hefted him into his lap, water sloshing over the sides of the bathing tub._

 

_“A grizzled, vicious monster that had lived long past it’s time, and done unspeakable harm…”_

 

_“But what was it?” he pressed._

 

_Lips brushed his damp forehead._

 

_“It was a wild boar, my darling. It was a pig.”_

 

Credence woke with a start, his hand sliding off his own chest and into the bath with a resounding splash. 

 

It must have been at least half an hour that he spent dozing, as melted wax had pooled at the base of the candles, although curiously the water hadn’t yet grown tepid. Perhaps there was a furnace beneath the floor, as the Romans used in their _caldariums._ He sighed, confused still further. Why on earth had he been allowed this apartment?

 

After climbing from the tub and wrapping himself in a bathing sheet, he went into the bedchamber and found that the little ebony table beside the fire - now leaping eagerly as if it had waited all it’s life for the opportunity - had been covered by a cloth, and a service of gold laid upon it. A steaming coffee pot carried the unmistakable scent of hot chocolate. Several covered dishes were found to contain some kind of rich, chicken soup, a loaf of golden bread, sliced, filled with raisins, and - it gladdened his heart further, somehow - a small apple tart studded with almonds and glazed with melted sugar.

It could only be assumed that Robert’s natural modesty had forbidden him from writing in full detail the extent to which the prince’s hospitality could reach.

 

By the time Credence had dressed himself in a thin linen nightshirt and sucked the last traces of caramel from his fingertips, the sun was rising in earnest and he chided himself out of habit for allowing the time to slip by so much further - surely his waking hours would be entirely out of joint now. But it couldn’t be helped. 

 

Bright sunlight began to creep across the oriental rug, and as he sipped the dregs of his chocolate Credence rose from the fur-draped armchair and looked out over the courtyard, until the casement abruptly grasped his attention.

 

The windows here were of inlaid glass as well, depicting the same bearded man in armor, but accompanied this time by Mark the Apostle, judging by the open book in his hands and the lion heads on his throne - though it was a much younger representation of the saint than any Credence had found in sacred art.

 

It was, however, the central figure which he found the more fascinating - almost certainly an ascendent of his host, the likeness was even greater in this portrait than below stairs - and once again he was surrounded by the oddly shaped trees with their twisted branches. Perhaps, Credence wondered, the earth had been scorched long ago in the midst of some battle, and the victor - the hero shown throughout the castle - was the lord who had built his fortress atop the mountain, to be inherited by his sons. 

An involuntary smile quirked the side of Credence’s lip, though he wasn’t certain what about the thought - a rather pleasing one, really - he found so amusing. It was hardly as if -

 

 

 

_“By Agnes’ left tit, man - where did you learn your table manners?” the host ribbed shamelessly, though his stone-cut face remained humorless as ever. Several of the lesser lords guffawed, one of them spewing Venetian wine down his ruddy beard._

_An enormous, burly man with crooked teeth stiffened at his master’s side, but the prince halted him with an indistinct shake of his head._

_“Your pardon, my lord… there’s little need for court niceties in the prince’s guardhouse.”_

_Their looks of condescension did not fade, and he thanked his sly-tongued father for granting him his earliest lessons in dissembling._

 

_There had been skepticism and confusion when he had first elucidated his plan, and only the horse master, now beside him, seemed capable of grasping the reason; if Lestrange were so eager to see his only daughter become a royal lady and his grandsons princes, then no doubt he would receive such an illustrious suitor with the degree of fawning and honeyed words due his rank - and more._

 

_Percival had no doubt that Corvus Lestrange would order his servants to clean the stone floor with their tongues, had the man thought it might please him._

 

_Better to arrive in the guise of a lowly constable of the Keep, and observe how a wealthy French nobleman hosted those he deemed inferior._

 

_It was already proving to be a fascinating education - only an hour within the walls, and Percival could hardly contain his anticipation for the moment Lestrange realized his folly, and began to squirm._

 

Every page in this hall looks at him as though they had seen the face of a demon, _he mused whilst tearing apart a lamb’s flesh with his teeth, smearing the grease down his beard with a dirty hand._ He’ll not glower so fiercely in a day’s time.

 

_There had been no suggestion that the eldest daughter would be brought to the head table to entertain a mere messenger - no matter that he was allegedly sent by a prospective husband -_

_and patience was not one of Percival’s greatest virtues._

 

_“Would it be too bold to ask after the lady’s absence? The prince would care to hear as to the girl’s appearance upon my return, of course -“_

 

_“So your master is ruled by lust, then?” Lestrange inquired silkily, unaware of the flash of danger illuminating his guest’s dark eyes._

 

_“He is after all, both ruler and man, my lord.”_

 

_One corner of Lestrange’s thin mouth curled into a prurient sort of smile, and he snapped his fingers at a harried looking vassal. A bruise shone on the boy’s cheekbone as he passed one of the torches._

 

_Some minstrels continued playing reedily from a narrow balcony overhead, and Percival held back his growing annoyance. Obviously, the family’s cloying decadence had not been left behind in France, where such trivialities belonged - silk cloths draped on the tables, roasted peacocks laid on silver platters, delicate tapestries adorning the walls which he doubted Lestrange’s cloistered daughter had so much as pricked her finger on._

 

_Well. He didn’t intend to marry the girl for her needlework… or in fact, much else. One hoped she would be content with the life of a chaste martyr, for that was as good a fate as she could expect once the Abhartach ring was slid onto her hand…_

 

_There was little change in the attitude of the men when Letitia Lestrange swept into the hall, followed closely by a dwarf woman who carried the train of her rose velvet gown, and -_

 

_Percival grew quite still, a strip of lamb hanging from his teeth seconds away from being ripped to pieces, as he took note of the final member in the odd little procession._

 

_He was a very young man, no older than nineteen at the most, fine-boned and slender to judge by his wrists - lovely, fragile things - though the rest of him was unbearably obscured by the shapeless wool habit that fell just to the edge of his bare feet. Great, velvety brown eyes gazed winsomely from beneath a fringe of lovely dark curls, and Percival found himself reminded of a sweet-eyed fawn that he’d been unable to bear shooting, as a boy._

 

_“Over there, girl - stand where the prince’s mongrel can see you clearly.” Lestrange growled to his daughter, tearing Percival’s attention from the little beauty._

_Letitia was silent, not having permission to speak, though she carried herself with the bearing of a born queen, well aware of her own beauty and unashamed. It might have been refreshing at any other moment, but at that instant Percival only found her presence galling._

_Spitting his un-chewed mouthful to the straw covered floor, he made a deliberate show of consideration, though his interest was piqued briefly when the boy drew a sharp breath at his coarseness._

_Too young to be the girl’s confessor - a novice perhaps, sent to tutor in holy matters? Small wonder then, that he cooed like an offended dove._

_What Percival did not expect, was the sudden flush of embarrassment at his own behavior._

_He waved Letitia off, noting with some exasperation the manner in which she turned up her nose - and yet, with no other teacher then her skull-browed father, he could fault her little._

_However, the soft look thrown her by his newfound temptation, paired with a reassuring smile, proved more galling than any childish snobbery. For a moment, he could have hated the girl for drawing such an expression when he himself had earned only fear and distaste._

 

_“You keep a holy brother, my lord?” he called up to the head table once the little party had disbanded and Letitia was seated beside her father._

 

_“Obviously - but why should it interest you?”_

 

_Percival bit back a smirk. Oh, he would enjoy making an example of this one - the crows would eat well, once he was finished._

 

_“The roads are full of ill-fortune, my lord - I would not wish to face Judgement unshriven, as you could well understand.”_

 

_From a vassal, that was a somewhat insolent speech, and the significance was not lost on Lestrange - his brows drew together over his sharp nose._

 

_“… Father Matthias can be found in the chapel.” he muttered at last, indicating a tonsured man in black robes at the end of the head table, rather than the boy standing behind his daughter’s chair, to Percival’s irritation._

_The priest offered a polite nod, ice blue eyes glaring daggers at his patron, and it was pleasing at least to think that not all under this roof shared Covus Lestrange’s foul disposition._

_“If not in the chapel, sir, then the library -“ he called down the length of the table. “One is not always sustained merely by the word of God.”_

 

_“A library as well? You’ve hidden assets, my lord - should his highness not be made aware of all that might encompass his bride’s dowry?”_

 

_“Only a few meaningless scribblings - nothing your master would wish to concern himself with.”_

 

_Percival noticed that the boy seemed distressed at the words, but before he could risk inquiring, Lestrange’s daughter broke her guise of subservience._

 

_“The volumes are magnificent, Father, as you well know - and they aren’t_ scribblings, _they’re beautiful and perfect -“_

 

_“- and wasting my coins on excess parchment, no doubt. If you hadn’t coddled that whelp since your childhood, he might have proved fit for something useful.”_

 

_“Like soldiering? That should have commanded an even higher expense -“ she muttered, her tone surprisingly defiant, before her father cut her speech short._

 

_“Enough. God’s teeth, you talk as if he were -“_

 

_“Your own child? My brother? And so he is, albeit from a different womb - though you seem willing to forget such bonds when it suits you -“_

 

_Percival ground his teeth, while his infatuation - plainly the subject of the argument and near green with fear - hesitantly touched the girl’s sleeve, as if begging her for silence but unwilling to risk whatever punishment might come with daring to speak._

 

_“You astonish me, Lestrange.”he interrupted, ripping a white roll to bits in his fingers and dipping into the wine, with apparent calm. “Even a bastard has value to a man deprived of his only legitimate son.”_

 

_Many men colored scarlet when infuriated; Corvus Lestrange did not. His face whitened to the shade of chalk blown from a cliff. The boy seemed to shrink in learned-dread as his father rose from his seat at the table._

 

_“Mind your tongue, or my guardsmen will be only too glad to relieve you of it.” Corvus snarled dangerously, but his guest appeared to take no notice, sucking the final drops of red wine from his fingertips._

 

_“That might not prove as easy as you’d wish to believe. Sir.”_

 

_Lestrange’s brow furrowed. The remainder of the household had time only for a few confused glances amongst themselves before half the pages in the hall drew blades on the several guards in attendance, each servant’s purloined tabard bearing the Lestrange seal - two ravens volant - quickly slashed aside to reveal a crest charged by a black dragon encircling an oak tree._

_A serving maid shrieked…_

 

… but it wasn’t the scream of a woman, only the bleating of a goat below in the courtyard, or so Credence judged as he blinked the sleep from his eyes. 

It seemed a tragedy to awaken when all was so cozy and warm, and beautiful bedclothes lay heaped upon him - even if, as he became aware with the gradual return of his senses, he could not recall actually climbing beneath the furs and embroidered sheets at dawn. He must have been over-tired, and his mind no longer accountable - it was the only explanation with which he could satisfy himself.

 

It was late afternoon already, much to Credence’s embarrassment - when he was a child, such a degree of slothfulness would be punished at best by several hours locked inside the airing cupboard.At worst… but there was no purpose in thinking on that.

 

Regretting that he must abandon his warm nest, he slid out from under the thick covers and found his clothes from the previous evening folded and laid out upon the blanket chest, evidently washed and pressed before he awoke. The fire had been lit as well, so that he might not rise to a cold bedchamber, and on the little ebony table sat an oriental vase filled with jasmine and tuberose.

 

Credence smiled happily to himself, stroking a thumb across a sweet-smelling yellow petal.

Strange cuttings to be sure, but quite pretty, and the thought was a kind one.

 

He took a leisurely pace while dressing - it was evident that there was no hurry to commence the day’s affairs - before turning to retrieve his cache of papers from beside the fireplace. Yet it was not there.

A rapid search of the bedroom forced him to realize, with mounting panic, that the entire case had vanished, and with it every detail of the settlement which his firm had placed ever so trustingly into his inexperienced care.

 

Suddenly aware that he was trembling, Credence grasped at the bedpost with one hand to steady himself.

 

Well, he could inquire among the servants of course - but that might lead them to think he suspected them of being light-fingered, and heavens knew what the prince might write to Tompkins and Hawkins if the integrity of his own staff were questioned by an impertinent little first-year clerk…

 

And with no livelihood any longer, he would have no choice but to pray that Mrs. Barebone would take him back in…

 

No - he’d beg on the streets before that. He’d steal. 

 

Almost in tears with frantic dread, Credence threw open his chamber door and rushed into the corridor, only to find himself half-thrown into the prince’s arms with the force of his own haste.

 

“What’s the great hurry, little one? Surely you don’t fear the day lost - there are as many hours to be found by moonlight as by the sun.”

 

Miserable, Credence hesitantly explained his plight, but was not greeted by the exasperation or contempt he feared. Rather, this unforgivable carelessness seemed to illicit no reaction beyond mild acceptance and even… unconcern?

 

The prince smiled gently and laid a hand on Credence’s shoulder, his thumb brushing his collar so closely he felt the odd chill of the man’s flesh beginning to prickle his own.

“It happens often enough - this is an old place, with many secrets of it’s own, and things can be misplaced easily. Try not to worry yourself, it will be recovered soon, I’m sure. Now come; we should continue our conversation, and now without the overhanging weight of legal matters, hm?”

 

A quiet misgiving began tugging at his mind, but Credence dismissed it quickly as he was led back to their sitting room of the night before, where another fire danced merrily in the grating.

 

They spoke for hours, yet again, not only on the life and bustle of London, but of art, music, great battles of the region (the prince described these in particular detail - he seemed to have made quite a study on the subject) and it was a relief and delight to Credence that his host should be well-read on so many and so varied matters, despite his apparent seclusion within the stone walls of his home.

 

A curiously pleased smile crossed his face when Credence mentioned his devotion to literature.

 

“I confess, I suspected as much and had a selection drawn from my library - they’re somewhat recent works, possibly familiar, but I hope you’ll find them enjoyable despite that.”

 

He nodded towards a little stack of books on the side table, each covered a jewel shaded silk, before Credence could pounce upon them with a gasp of delight, forgetting both his errand and his station.

 

“But - sir,” he paused, one hand upon the first offering, “Couldn’t I see your entire collection…?”

 

The prince was already displaying reluctance before Credence had finished speaking.

 

“It’s fallen somewhat into disrepair of late; I… lost my librarian some time ago. Years, in fact.”

 

“P-perhaps I could right a little of the damage, sir? I wouldn’t be here overlong, but- but I’d be more than happy to do what I could in that time?”

 

His answer was a gentle look, though strangely sad.

 

“I’m certain you would, sweet boy - don’t think I’m not pleased by the offer, but there are risks within that place which I’ve no desire to subject you to.”

 

Conceding defeat, Credence turned his attention to the gift, his slender fingers tracing the spine of each book admiringly.

 

One of them - the slimmest - was sheathed in jade green damask, and when he brushed through the pages to familiar text, he couldn’t hold back a sweet expression.

 

“You have a splendid intuition, sir. I adore Tennyson.”

 

“I’m unfortunately ignorant of his greater works, though I had this volume purchased out of love for your beautiful tongue - english literature is some of the richest in the world, I’m sure you would agree?”

 

Credence nodded, his initial blush only increasing in ferocity.

 

“It… I found it an escape, as a child… it was a silly fancy, though…”

 

He risked a glance up from the words and found that the prince’s face appeared set in stone, his lips clenched in a firm line that could only suggest fury.

 

“Sir - forgive me, should I -“

 

“No…” the anger eased away, and he seemed to recover himself. Resting a knuckle on his upper lip, he nodded towards the small book in Credence’s hands.

 

“Perhaps we could both do well with an escape. Read for us both, out loud?”

 

 

A strange request, but not impossible, and quite suddenly, inexplicably, appealing. An involuntary smile tugging at his lips, Credence sifted through until he had found his own favorite - what Mr. Hawkins often described as so much romantic, womanly drivel.

 

He had only found that with every perusal, it broke his heart and set him to dreaming.

 

A finger traced the words, and he began, softly;

 

_“On either side the river lie_

_Long fields of barley and of rye,_

_That clothe the wold and meet the sky…”_

 

*

 

_“From dying swans wild warblings come,_

_Blown shoreward; so to Camelot_

_Still as the boathead wound along_

_The willowy hills and fields among,_

_They heard her chanting her deathsong -“_

 

 

A clinking of plates interrupted the verse, and Credence regretfully paused in his reading as Irma began setting out the dinner service on a tea table nearby.

For one lovely moment, he had found himself settled into a strange sense of peaceful normality that, for years of his life, had seemed a hopeless, fond dream. He could have continued his recitation under the glow of the fire and the prince’s soft gaze for hours on end, happily. 

When he did not continue, his host stood and moved behind his chair, the back of his hand brushing along the clerk’s slim shoulders. It was a familiar touch, one that many gentlemen back in London would find quite suspect, and rightly so, but Credence, for reasons that he did not want to consider too strongly, refused to question it.

 

“Enough for now, I think.” the prince murmured to him. “Come - supper is waiting.”

 

Credence allowed himself to be led to the table, but noticed with some surprise that there was only a setting for one.

 

“Sir -“ he protested, as he was ushered into the prepared place, “- sir, won’t you dine-?”

 

“Never as early as this.” the prince smiled. “I'm afraid I require… more particular fare. Don’t trouble yourself, please, eat.”

 

Accustomed to doing as he was bid, Credence allowed him to lift the covers from several dishes, and serve the food himself as if playing servant to his guest.

The little housekeeper had outdone herself, clearly - the roast chicken smelled divine, alongside slices of pike bathed in butter and soft white bread. At the side lay little rum soaked cakes and sliced pears poached to softness in hot cream, which Credence might gladly have eaten his weight in, had he possessed less self-control.

 

The prince occupied the seat opposite, clearly taking pleasure in his guest’s enjoyment, and for a moment the weight of his eyes was so disquieting that Credence flailed - rather clumsily - for something to distract them both.

 

“I- I don’t suppose these plates are… _solid_ gold?” he asked eventually, tracing a finger along the stem of his wine chalice.

 

Thankfully seeming more amused than offended, the prince gave him a nod.

 

“They are four hundred years old. But please -“ he protested when the clerk set down the goblet with some alarm, “don’t think of them as museum articles to be admired from afar - it’s the connection they give to my forefathers which I treasure, not the objects themselves. I had hoped, once, to make a present of them to my intended bride, but as it was not to be, it gives me greater pleasure to see them now, in your hands.”

 

Credence lapped away a trace of wine from his pinked lips as he pondered the statement. So, there had been no lady of the castle to fear out-putting - but then, he puzzled, considering the prince’s words when showing Credence to his own bedchamber, why…?

 

A wolf howled somewhere beyond the stained glass windows, interrupting his tangled thoughts. The prince’s smile widened.

 

“They sing beautifully, no?”

 

Credence started, and something in his face must have appeared strange, for his host quickly amended;

 

“It’s been years since I pursued any worthy prey, but the thrill of the hunter is never lost.”

 

He stood at last, motioning to the clerk to keep his seat.

 

“Now I must beg you to excuse me, there are matters which need attending to - I will speak to Bruno about your missing articles, with luck they may be returned to you by the morning. Please, engage yourself as you wish until the fancy takes you to sleep. Dream well.” he whispered, almost as an after-thought, and vanished into the darkened corridor.

 

For a short while Credence attempted to do as he was bidden, and amused himself with the gifts lent to him. But within an hour his earlier curiosity had overcome him - curiosity mingled with… inexorability? He couldn’t truly understand the pull to find the library, only that it seemed appropriate. 

Once the urge would no longer let him be, he slipped past the large hinged doors to the corridor, finding it re-lit with multiple flickering torches. Treading lightly, he took the first branch in the hallway, unsure of where precisely it led. For a moment he felt not unlike Theseus in the Minotaur’s labyrinth, and longed for, if not a skein of yarn, than at least a loose thread on the cuff of his jacket so that he might not lose his way.

As it was, he would merely have to recall the return path in his mind.

 

The branch lead off to a further convoluted hall, hung with tapestries to rival those he had seen once in Hampton Court - yet while this had been faded and moth-eaten, the stunning embroideries before him now seemed as if they had been made only the day before.

In one depiction, peasants sheared sheep in view of the very castle he stood within; in another, a troupe of lovely young nobles passed on horseback through a blossoming orchard, led by a young man astride a speckled jennet - flowers hung in a wreath about his neck, giving him quite the look of a sweet-faced faerie prince…

 

One door proved to be locked, and the other refused to budge - evidently over the course of time, the hinges had rotted away and the wood had fallen to rest on the floor. Abandoning the effort, he tried the third, which - though it creaked hideously - managed to open wide enough to admit him. 

 

Almost pitching forward into the winding staircase, down to the bowels of the castle, Credence was seized with a sudden, dreadful foreboding. His stomach churned distressingly. Light had barely permeated the darkness which enveloped the depths of the stairwell, and one wrong step might cost him a leg or worse…

Suddenly a light, as if brought by a single candle, illuminated a far off landing somewhere below, and Credence - seized by a relief at the evidence of another human soul which quite eclipsed any mortification he might have felt at so abusing the prince’s hospitality - rushed down towards it, only to halt when he finally reached the source.

 

He was right, it had been only one candle, resting in an alcove without any lamp or holder, and casting twisted shadows on the river stone walls as a monster writhed within it’s light.

 

It had the shape of a man but the lumbering gait of a bear, heavy arms suspended beneath arched shoulders - the candlelight flickered over it’s face.

 

Blood red lips curled back from a ragged gash of a mouth, hideously sharp fangs curled and mangled where they were set in the creature’s jaws, blue veins throbbing beneath thin, grey skin.

 

Numbly, Credence noticed that the legs of his trousers were soaked through, and a puddle had gathered on the dirt floor, quickly turning to mud.

 

The beast snarled, it’s curved back facing him as it gathered something up against it’s chest, and there was a soft, warbling sound, the same wailing which had awoken him that morning, but it wasn’t a goat at all, it was a child, no more than ten years old, lying limp in the creature’s arms…

 

A soft mewl of horror escaped Credence’s throat as a skeletal hand petted back the boy’s dark hair, and brought into plain sight a familiar black signet ring, adorned with a golden tree…

 

Turning with unnatural speed, the monster’s soulless black eyes latched onto his paling face, and a grating, harsh voice forced it’s way, in great pain, past a tongue clearly not intended for speech;

 

_“NO!…”_ it snarled, desperate. _“NOT NOW… NOT YET…!”_

 

The candle guttered, and Credence’s eyes rolled back in his skull as if he’d been struck by something firm and unforgiving.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! It's been a long time, I know, but here's the next installment!
> 
> Guest-starring Derek Jacobi (thanks, Cadfael.)
> 
> As a fair warning, we get some gory flashbacks in this segment and start to grasp what kind of a ruler Percival really was. Message me on tumblr if you'd like specific details before reading! (https://shakespeareia.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Also, bits and pieces of "Dracula Untold" have begun to sneak into my plans for the upcoming chapters, and I do sincerely apologize. :p
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

 

 

_“Heaven forgive my selfishness, but I cannot help feeling relieved, Father - he seems no better than a brutish ox -“_

_Matthias glanced up at the boy in reproachful surprise._

_“He might have proved a most worthy husband for the lady - though certainly we shall never know, after your father’s stupidity - I will not have you judge a man merely because he licks his fingers clean. Straighten that corner.” he added, nodding to the freshly laid altar cloth._

 

_“It’s not only his physical crudity, Father - surely you’ve heard the tales…?” the boy seemed to silence himself with a downcast glance, as if unwilling to speak of something so horrid, and Matthias sighed. He paused in scraping the wax drippings from the chapel floor, and beckoned him over. Obedient to a fault, the child knelt beside him and began gathering the scrapings into a wooden bucket - they could be melted down and used afresh. Wax was too expensive a commodity to discard lightly, and tallow was unacceptable for holy use - or so the bishop had decreed. Privately, Matthias thought him a self-important pietist, but his opinion was of no value - at least in that arena._

_As for the subject at hand, perhaps it would be best if his pupil - and favorite, if he were quite honest - had the benefit of a rounded perspective._

_“You speak of the yarns spun around the courtyard fire? Oh yes, I’ve heard them. Rather fantastical, if they can be given any credibility.”_

_“But - Lord Grindelvaldt said that when he was at court, they saw the prince feasting with cripples and beggars in an old church, and…” his voice quavered. “… and when he had finished his wine, he ordered the doors boarded up and the walls set alight with all the rest still inside- and that when they were out riding, he saw a man with a shirt that had been made too short, and -“_

_“Now hear me - “ Matthias interrupted the boy’s increasingly hysterical recitation. “Lord Grindelvaldt’s first intention was to give you a dreadful fright, and in this he has obviously succeeded. Secondly, if there is more than a selective element of truth in these stories, which I very much doubt, it would do us good to remember that in these times, no man can effectively rule without justice flavored by cruelty. Unreasonable it may be, but fear often proves as influential as love where loyalties are concerned. And thirdly -“ he paused, fixing his young helpmate with a meaningful look. “- Grindelvaldt is not the only man to have witnessed Abhartach’s actions first hand.”_

_The boy gasped._

_“Father, you - exaggerate, surely -!”_

How you struggle not to call me a liar, sweet lad. _he thought, barely suppressing a chuckle._

_“Oh, indeed - I rode with the army as confessor when he sought to reclaim the kingdom from Prince Karl; every man, woman, or child over twelve joined that fight, their beasts with them. And Percival Abhartach besieged the wall himself with all the courage of a Goliath - do you know, it was said by the guards, taken prisoner after their surrender, that such was the terror he inspired throughout the keep, Karl’s own men believed there to be_ ten _of him on the battlefield. To us, that dawn, he was… invincible.”_

_His young listener stared unseeing at his own ink-stained hands, the image clearly unfolding within his mind to intense astonishment._

_“But - but you made no mention of this at dinner - why not reveal his subterfuge -?“_

_The priest scoffed. “It was half a lifetime ago, lad - in those days he was hardly a year older than you are now, and lacked the beard. The point is, you’d do best to discriminate your listening whenever a certain German lord chooses to regale you with tales of those he dislikes. Now get that wax to a good fire - and see that it doesn’t burn in the kettle this time.” he chided fondly as the boy near to tripped over his own feet in the rush to obey…_

 

_*_

 

 

_The tallow stank of animal sweat and barn fodder when it was set alight, and more then once the little librarian was forced to shield his eyes for fear of injury when the flame sputtered._

 

_As rancid as they were, at least the lumpy tapers provided enough light to copy by - his sight was already a bit weak, and additional illumination was helpful even in the day-lit hours. There were stories, from the occasional passing Italian merchant, of round pieces of glass which could preserve and even improve the work of the eyes, but most dismissed such things as fantasy. Not that luxuries of that sort - if they existed - would ever be wasted on him anyway._

 

_Bent very low over the parchment stretched before him, quill nib scratching meticulously at the surface, he didn’t immediately notice the shadow which crept across the window - not until a finely-shaped hand caressed the set illustration in the margin of the page, and someone chuckled at the image._

_He shot back from the desk in alarm, and it was only a grasp on his shoulder - firm, but gentle - that stopped him from throwing himself into a desperate genuflection._

 

_“Clever.” the prince smirked, examining the drawing more closely. Against the ivory background, a hare held the lead of a hunting hound as it panted and drooled eagerly, waiting for the rabbit to throw a proffered stick._

_“The idea was yours?”_

_The boy nodded, his face growing hot and pink._

_“I - pardon, my lord, but… I found myself dreaming one morning, what it might be like if the prey were the master in another world, and…”_

_“No need to explain - the meaning is quite clear. Not one perhaps, that much of our own world might view with kindness -“_

_The boy gasped, distressed._

_“Oh, no - sir, I meant no offense!-“_

_“Calm yourself, lad.” he leaned closer, admiring the delicate script, though his dark eyes seemed only to trace the pattern of the lines and curves which formed each letter, rather than the words._

 

_“The work is exquisite.”_

 

_The librarian’s blush deepened, and yet a confused little furrow appeared in his brow._

 

_“You’re too kind, sir.”_

 

_He continued to gaze at the words, un-seeing. A quiet suspicion forming in the boy’s mind, he brushed away a trace of the setting sand lingering on the parchment, and cleared his throat nervously, well aware that he was risking the prince’s dignity and by extension, his rage._

 

_Those caught upon the end of_ that _were said to never speak again… except perhaps to spew their entrails from their mouths._

 

_“Shall…” he began, shakily. “… shall I read it for you, highness?”_

 

_A startled look crossed the prince’s face, as he cast another uncomprehending glance towards the page._

_It was evident that none had been foolhardy enough to dare make such an offer, and certainly he’d been too proud to ask, despite the necessity of help. The boy felt a sudden twinge of unexpected sympathy._

 

_“Perhaps… if read aloud, I sometimes find the text more melodic than if I pass over the words silently. Then it becomes music as well as an art…”_

 

_He fell silent, gnawing his lip to a red puffiness. It was by no means certain that his attempt to dissemble, and thus spare his companion’s pride, would be successful. Perhaps he’d even unconsciously insulted him? The prince was a warrior, not a poet - surely such delicate beauty was of no interest, never mind being parroted to like a child._

 

_To his shock, the prince smiled gently, and gave a nod._

 

_Swallowing nervously, he drew the top-most page slightly closer, and began._

 

“S-Saint George was a knight and born in Cappadocia. One time he came to the city of Silene, and - and near this city was a pond, wherein there was a dragon which was poisoning all the country. Whenever he approached the city he poisoned the people with his breath, and therefore the people of the city gave to him every day two sheep to eat, so that he would do no harm…”

 

_He read for almost a half hour, a late afternoon breeze wafting through the arrow slips and lifting his hair gently. He continued and as the story grasped him his voice began to strengthen._

 

“He struck him with his spear, injuring him severely. Then he said to the maid, "Tie your belt around the dragon's neck, and be not afraid."

When she had done so the dragon followed her meekly. She led him into the city, and the people fled in fear…”

 

_A quiet chuckle made him pause, and he glanced up to find the prince smirking._

 

_“My lord?”_

 

_He shook his head, his lips still twitching._

 

_“Forgive me - but doesn’t it strike you as foolish, that a virgin’s touch could tame a monster?”_

 

_The boy cocked his head, musing on the question perhaps more deeply than his companion might have intended._

 

_“Perhaps it had never known a gentle hand.”_

 

_He shuffled the pages back into order, self-consciousness returning quickly in the lapse, while the prince watched him silently with an enigmatic look._

 

_One of his slender fingers traced along the edge of the parchment._

 

_“I only pray that once the work is completed, my… my patron will be kind enough to send the manuscript for illumination and binding at the abbey.”_

 

_The stumble in his speech - his struggle not to use the word “father” - was not lost on the prince, whose face darkened. The boy lowered his head once again, mis-interpreting the expression._

_Whatever Father Matthias had said in the chapel, he found it difficult to remove the image of poor beggars and lepers walled up in a burning church._

 

_“Is that not a skill you possess?”_

 

_He shook his head regretfully._

 

_“I would have begun to learn, once my vows were taken, but… but it wasn’t to be, I suppose.”_

 

_Chair legs screeched upon the floorboards as the prince drew up a seat beside him at the desk, and the boy started at the familiarity._

 

_“And why is that? Surely the brethren didn’t see fit to turn you out so quickly?”_

 

_An uncomfortable swallow and a focused stare upon the drying parchment confirmed that had been precisely the case._

 

_“…why?”_

 

_When he spoke again, his voice shook._

 

_“I… they said I was ill-suited to the life of a monk, and sent me back here. I possessed the joy and willingness, though… though none of the calling. But perhaps it was best,” he amended hurriedly, as if desperate to prove himself in the wrong for his remorse._

_“ - if I had not been stopped in time, it might have been a miserable life indeed.”_

 

_“I expect your family was pleased to have you returned to them, however.” the prince muttered, with more than a trace of coldness, and the librarian shrank down._

 

_“As - as much as they could be, sir. I’m a sore trial to them, I’m afraid.”_

 

_Every word was spoken with complete earnestness - after all, bearing false witness was Grave Matter._

 

_“I find that difficult to believe - I’ve been within these walls only three days, and have seen nothing to justify the unkindness life has thrown upon you.”_

 

_He glanced up, bemused and uncertain._

 

_“… Why should life be kind to me, sir? I’m low-born, a - a bastard -“_

 

_It seemed, for a moment, as if Abhartach wished to object, but that could be nothing more than childish inventiveness on the boy's own part._

 

_All living creatures had their own place under God, this was his, and there was no reason whatsoever for such a great man to question it._

 

_The door at the far end of the chamber creaked open, and they leapt apart like a pair of misbehaving children._

 

_“There you are.”came Letitia’s familiar, honeyed tones from across the room, as she slipped from between a pair of shelves, Irma at her side with a linen bundle in her small hands._

_“The bread was too dark this morning for my taste, so I thought your little friends might enjoy it instead.”_

 

_Painfully aware of his reddened face, he accepted the parcel before turning for the door._

 

_“I’ll - I’ll take it to them now, before the afternoon prayers - y-you’re most generous, milady.”_

 

_He didn’t wait for a response, a blunder that their father would no doubt elicit expensive payment for later, but hurried towards the staircase which led to the tower. He was painfully aware of the tingling all over his skin, a foreign sensation that had settled into the pit of his belly…_

 

_“Will you dine tonight?”_

 

_The prince’s voice stopped him where he stood, and it took him several moments to find his tongue._

 

_“If - if Lord Lestrange wishes it.” he replied softly._

 

“ I _wish it, lad - I doubt your father will refuse me.”_

 

_The boy spoke before thinking._

 

_“I - I doubt any man could refuse you, sir.” he stammered, before pattering up the stairs towards those few he believed to be his only true companions._

 

_*_

 

 

_Both lord and lady watched the boy hurry away, one pityingly, the other with longing._

 

_“And they call the women of our line the most fragile.” Letitia muttered, replacing the abandoned chair in it’s place beside the copyist’s desk. “He’d not be so delicate if he’d been allowed to run and breathe like other boys - but Lady Lestrange saw to it that he be kept in his little cell, and father made no objection.”_

 

_Even as his hands tightened on the desk at this fresh bit of news, his knuckles whitening, Percival considered her with some bemusement as she waved her servant back towards the door, displaying no desire or even interest to remain alone with a man who, only several days before, might have made her a princess by marriage. There was nothing deliberately seductive in the movement of her body beneath the black silk gown, and if she felt anything towards him whatsoever, it was merely acceptance and even indifference._

 

_A blessing, when his own attentions were so decidedly fixed elsewhere._

 

_“Tell me - is he very like his brother?”_

_She did not sigh, as he might have expected, but raised her chin, holding her jaw tight._

_“No. Corvus was fair. Flaxen.” she corrected herself. “And yet even if… my lord, I truly do believe that even if he had been born of my stepmother’s own blood, our father would still have seen him through the glass with which he looks on all the world; chattel, to be bartered and sold as he wishes.”_

_The lady paused, staring determinedly out the vaulted window towards the mountains, where the towers of the prince’s own castle stood silhouetted in the distance against the early morning sunlight._

__

_“Lord Grindelvaldt dines with us again tonight, highness.” she murmured, with a tone of significance._

_“Father never entertains men unless he may profit by them.”_

 

_*_

 

_The boy was late arriving to the hall, many of the revelers already well on their way to drunk, and he blushed at the ribald laughter while approaching the prince’s place at the high table._

 

_Small white toes were visible at the hem of his cassock, and Percival nearly choked on his wine._

 

_At his side, the ashen-haired German baron was already exchanging badinage with their host._

 

_“Come now, sir -“ Lestrange entreated, with the nearest resemblance to a smile Percival had yet seen the man attempt, “- you promised to grace my table with the fruits of your skill-?”_

 

_“And why exhaust my finest falcons, when the tower roosts were full to bursting?” Grindelvaldt replied, smirking. The boy was close enough now to catch their conversation, and a perturbed look was growing on his face, to Percival’s confusion._

 

_Grindelvaldt continued his boasting, though his odd-eyes had settled on the pretty arrival with an abrupt relish that the prince found infuriating._

 

_“I imagine there was precious other use for the creatures?”_

 

_A silver plate was set before their host with much ceremony, and amid all the murmurs of admiration from the nobles Percival heard the little librarian sob in horror, both hands clapped over his mouth._

 

_Almost twenty little mourning doves lay in the dish, their small breasts split in two and exposing their hearts, like black beans, surrounded by a stuffing of cloves and rosemary. The dismembered wings, still clothed in soft brown feathers, formed a star-shaped bed for their carcasses._

 

_The boy trembled, his eyes glistening as he fled the room._

 

_When the drunken carousing had reached such a pitch that he could escape, Percival found him in the height of the tower. Shed feathers and bird droppings littered the narrow ledge, and something inside him twinged as he watched the boy tearfully gathering up small white eggshells from the floorboards, where an uncaring hand had knocked their now pitifully trampled nest._

 

_“… Why?” he sobbed, finally noticing the man within the doorway. “They’d never done any harm… why would…?”_

 

_Percival only shook his head and drew him close, the poor child desperate for comfort from anysoul nearby, even one he feared -_

 

 

By the time Credence awoke, his skin clammy with cold sweat, it was nearly five in the evening - that was, if his small timepiece could be trusted, and it had not been wound before he had retired for the evening. Something sour and biting pooled in his gut.

 

He rose slowly, pushing aside the embroidered bed sheets, and finding his clothes once again laid out spotlessly. Breakfast - or rather, dinner - sat on the little ebony table as before, but Credence only dressed quietly, leaving it untouched. The sour feeling had begun to claw it’s way up his throat, and even the thought of food distressed him.

 

A hasty toilette completed, he paced the room several times, polishing his spectacles on his moss-green waistcoat in something like a frenzy.

 

Something tugged insistently at his mind - the idea that the night had not passed so quietly as his rational mind would have him accept, some detail which carried crucial importance, but lingered just outside of the reach of memory, maddening him…

Despite the seemingly conclusive evidence of finding himself in his own room, beneath the sheets of his own bed, there was no denying the ache lingering at the back of his skull, or indeed the brief, distressing images from a nightmare which teased at his waking awareness.

 

The sight of jagged fangs billowed up in his mind like ink through water, followed by white eyes with black, lizard-like slits rather than pupils - those cadaverous hands with the claw-like nails, he remembered that, but there was something vital missing…

 

Was this how poor Robert had lost his wits?

 

A log cracked in half on the hearthstones, and Credence jumped, his mind turned about by his own fears. Panting now, he realized the room seemed incredibly close, and carefully tested the door. It was unbolted.

Relief swept his flustered nerves - for reasons he could not elucidate, he had been certain he would find himself imprisoned.

 

The halls of the castle were perfectly still, though the sun was only just beginning to set behind the mountains, casting long shadows through each diamond-paned window. The ringing emptiness of the great rooms unnerved him, and he quickly found himself opening whichever unlocked doors presented themselves in a distraught attempt to find another living soul.

 

 

 

After many minutes of desperate floundering he located the ponderous door at the entrance to the hall, studded all over with iron nails, and on pulling at it with such ferocity that he was thrown backward upon it’s sudden opening, found it unlocked.

 

The courtyard was burnished with sunlight, warming his face in an instant, and all at once the night’s terrors seemed far-off and unimportant. Credence realized he had not yet seen this part of the castle during the day, and it seemed both picturesque and haunting at one and the same time. The lower walls had been coated in stucco some centuries before, and the light refracted blindingly off the white plaster, casting stark shadows along a series of narrow steps set deep into a projecting doorway - he supposed they lead to the kitchens, for a scent of baking bread wafted through the chilly air - and a large well at the far corner of the yard, arched with iron and carved all over with leaves and the heads of fierce beasts. 

He leaned over the stone rim, taking note of his own distant reflection inside the rippling water. The old adage of truth and the bottom of a well came to his mind.

Was the old structure still in use, or had it become a relic like so many of the luxuries of the past, giving way to new definitions of the concept like pumped water? It was easy to imagine a little parade of serving girls making the journey across the courtyard, perhaps to precisely the spot where he stood, and dropping in the black iron bucket with a echoing -

 

_Splash!_

 

Water crashed against the stone sides of the well as the bucket plunged into the depths, and Credence jumped, momentarily alarmed at the abrupt answer to his musings, until he recognized the manservant, Bruno, who offered him an apologetic smile, full of yellowed teeth.

“Great thirsty brutes, horses.” he jibed, drawing the chain back up with remarkable speed. “Don’t water them quickly enough, they grow restive.”

Credence nodded, still caught in a spell of bewilderment. Surely he ought to have heard such a large man approaching, and Bruno’s enormous hands and shoulders spoke more of advantage through brawn rather than grace.

Briefly he recalled the diminutive housekeeper’s seemingly extraordinary speed of movement on his first night within the castle, but dismissed it. He must have been distracted, both on that occasion and this, and allowed his over-worked mind to create deceptions.

Curious, he followed the servant down a series of wide steps to an area of the courtyard sunk five feet lower, at level with the portcullis. Three vast barrel arches had been divided into stalls, where the black stallions that had drawn his carriage that first night huffed and stamped their hooves.

After emptying the bucket into the last trough, Bruno led the first of the team to a solidly-planted post nearby and, squatting to the cobbles, began picking clean the animal’s back hooves with a wrought iron hook.

A velvet-brown eye seemed to gaze longingly towards him, so Credence hesitantly crept forward and brushed two fingertips over the glossy black nose.

“He’s beautiful.” he murmured, as the horse whickered and nuzzled at his palm.

Bruno smirked.

“You should have seen his grandsire. From foot to shoulder he was nineteen of the hands of a man and black as death on a cold night.”

Eyes widening at the image presented, Credence made an attempt towards distraction by combing his fingers through the horse’s rippling mane, but it was a futile endeavor.

“He - he must have been quite fierce…”

“Like those of hell _-”_ Bruno grinned, as if with fond remembrance. “And just so, when he carried the master in his time. More a warrior than any knight then - when a turk aimed a spear at the master unseen, the beast tore his throat out. A great steed. He lived long and bravely, though… we could not preserve him as far as we should have liked.”

 

Credence swallowed with discomfort, almost taking no notice when the horse began nosing at the pockets of his waistcoat, as if searching for something, and the servant laughed.

“Spoilt creature - once someone flew every morning to their stable with apples, and now they expect it.”

Grooming complete, the horse was unlashed from the post and led back to his stall, whickering softly towards Credence. _Perhaps the next time,_ his great eyes seemed to say.

Privately the little clerk gave thanks that the animal’s lineage had clearly allowed it’s forbearers’ bloodlust to cool somewhat - he doubted that he could have dared approach the horse described without fear of his skull being dashed to the stones.

He glanced back towards the stalls, where the feeding trough was being filled with grain, though before the horse could lower it’s nose to eat, Bruno took a small vial from a pouch at his belt. He unstoppered it, and poured several drops into the oats. Then with a pat to the horse’s solid neck, he allowed it to munch at it’s long awaited meal.

Credence noted it all with some confusion. Tonic no doubt, but the animal didn’t seem to be ailing. 

“Have you… served the prince long?” he inquired eventually, for the sake of politeness.

 

Bruno’s lip curled, as if repressing laughter.

 

“Since we were boys.” he replied, and the image at last brought a true smile to Credence’s face - it seemed at once inconceivable and perfectly right that this behemoth of a man, let alone his intimidating host, had once been children playing at long-ago battles, which perhaps had taken place upon the very walls and towers surrounding them. Both of them great afflictions to their mothers, no doubt. Fruit-stealing forays at green-apple time were no doubt the least of -

 

_The summer air was brisk and scented with burgeoning leaves - perhaps the vineyards would be ripe soon, he considered brightly as he crept out of the bustling courtyard, unseen, and through the garrison door. The rotund sentry was snoring in his place by the coal brazier, his whiskers rippling with every grunt, and so none made any attempt to stop the boy as he slipped into the streets of the town beyond the castle gate._

 

_He had convinced himself that the sole cause for his disobedience was merely to ascertain the truth of the rumors sweeping the kitchens for weeks before, suggesting that a cache of oranges - sweeter than honey, some said, though he doubted that possibility - had arrived in the care of several oriental traders._

 

_He didn’t like to consider that simple curiosity might have been a stronger motive._

 

_A deep archway opened into the center square of the town, and as he dared the first few steps into the sunlight a helpless, delighted smile crept unbidden across his face._

 

_It seemed to be a market day. Cloth traders unfurled bolts of fine linen across their gorgeously arrayed stalls; a herd of bleating goats were steered past, each promising fresh milk to their purchaser. A glassblower sat against the wall of a nearby house with his tools laid about in orderly piles, each puff of breath through a narrow tube producing lovely globes which sparkled, jewel-like, to the delight of a few watching children. Some of their playmates chased each other about while their elder sisters chatted over baskets of washing at a nearby fountain, or else giggled and clapped while a man in a bright green tunic and hose juggled apples and pears with incredible ease. A balladeer sang at his side, to the seeming contentment of a newly wedded couple as they passed towards an old woman, who advertised her golden-brown hens with all the pride of a new mother._

 

_Something unfurled in the boy’s chest as he nodded cheerfully to passers-by, none of them suspecting for a moment that the dark-eyed lad dressed in blue might be anyone different from themselves; perhaps the comely youngest son of a successful weaver. More than one girl, balancing a basket on her hip, cast him a glance of interest._

_He noticed none of them, too delighted with the novelty of venturing out on his own, and wondering if Percival could be tempted to join him on some future anonymous jaunt beyond the castle walls._

_It wasn’t until he had almost reached the fruit seller’s cart that he finally noticed the gamey, burning stench of rotting meat - and froze._

 

_There, at the very end of the street, stood five upright wooden staves, all browned with dried blood. Bits of ragged cloth and loose flesh - like curdled cheese - hung loosely from the skeletal remains impaled upon the sharpened tips, and in the few eyes not yet picked away by some scavenging crow lingered an expression of horrified agony that would have sickened Satan himself._

 

_A purse dropped from the boy’s shaking hand, striking the cobblestones with a ring of coin._

 

So the tales were true… _he thought, in a sort of quiet hysteria._ All true…

 

_Suddenly weak-kneed, he barely managed to steady himself against a nearby drinking fountain, set into a stone wall. One of the carved faces above the basin, a twisted depiction of one of the Virtues, seemed to cackle maniacally at his distress._

_A warm hand touched his arm, and he startled._

_“Is something the matter, m’love?” a motherly-faced woman warbled in concern beside him. “You’d best have some water -“_

_A cup was pressed into his loose grip, and in an effort to drink he spilled more down the front of his tunic than past his lips._

_It was only after the first few sips had calmed his nerves that he recognized the texture of the smooth metal on his tongue, and stared at the vessel in growing shock._

_“This - this goblet is solid gold!”_

_The peasant looked back at him uncomprehendingly. He might as well have exclaimed at the color of the sky._

_“Yes? This surprises you?”_

_He looked to the cup again, but there was no mistake - the hammered sides gleamed under the bright sunlight, and the base glittered with sea-green emeralds. It was a chalice with which bishops might offer holy wine to an emperor, and yet it sat ignominiously at a village well, offering drink to merchant and minstrel alike._

 

_“But -“ he stammered, “-but surely someone would have stolen it by now -“_

_She chortled at his apparent ignorance._

_“Why should he, m’love, when it belongs to all? No man steals from his own table.”_

 

_His mind spinning, he raised his eyes to the horrors at the far end of the square, and the woman followed his gaze with growing understanding._

_“…He brought peace.” she murmured at last, with an air of reassurance, but he could see the truth in her face as clearly as if it had been written there with ink, and a grim agitation was suddenly palpable amid the bustle of the street._

_She was in terror. They all were._

_“They say he’s the messiah.”_

_His face lengthened in shock._

_“The mes-“_

_“The priests foretold it - at the moment of his birth, before his mother’s cries had faded, bloody tears fell from the image of the Virgin -“_

_“Then perhaps he’s a devil from the pit.” he whispered, shaking, but she chuckled without humor._

_“No no, m’love, he’s neither god nor devil - but certainly more than a man.”_

_She glanced about, as if to be certain none were listening, before leaning in close._

_“It’s said that he dips his bread into the blood of his enemies, and pickles their flesh in brine.” she whispered urgently, with no hint of grisly relish._

_For a long moment he stared blankly, his mind uncomprehending at how easily one might believe such things - and certainly the people all around had been given ample reason to believe._

_The peasant clucked pityingly._

_“You must be a stranger here.”_

_“… I suppose I am.” he mumbled, before staggering away, back in the direction of the castle gate. Had he possessed more of his wits, perhaps he would have fled, stolen a horse and made his escape from this newfound circle of hell, but in his stricken mind he could only think of returning home to the familiar, no matter how twisted it might have been in reality._

 

_A man’s scream brought him out of his petrified haze with an abrupt shock, and with rising horror he recognized the wide-bellied sentry from the garrison, now wide awake and pleading inarticulately as he was dragged through the street, to where those terrible stakes waited._

 

_The boy let out a cry of protest as a shaved-headed man with a wide belt aimed a kick at the sentry’s gullet. The assailant raised his eyes at the sound, and the trembling boy recognized the face of the castle horsemaster, his lover’s friend, a gentle giant who teased him kindly from time to time and led him to the little hiding places where the stable cats had nested their mewing kittens in the straw… incomparable with the butcher in the street, the toes of his boots darkened with wet blood…_

 

_“Kačiatko?” -_ Bruno muttered, his brow furrowing into scarred lines, and Credence leapt back as if a single touch from the man would singe his flesh. 

 

He blinked, again and again, as if trying to clear the weight of sleep from his eyes, but there had been no sleep this time, nothing to veil his dreams with knowledge of their unreality - for once he had been entirely awake, and yet the nightmares had come…

 

Panicked and ignoring the shouts behind him, Credence turned to flee, skirting the portcullis and escaping through the vine-covered garrison door as if he had accomplished it a hundred times. He spared no thought to it’s identical appearance with that he had seen within his waking vision.

 

There was no village beyond the gates any longer, only tangled branches where the trees had sprung up and entwined. Dead leaves were crushed underfoot as he scrambled uphill, his polished black shoes - oh! they would be spoiled now - catching on an exposed root and sprawling him onto his face. One hand flew out to break the fall, planting into the icy mud, but the loose clods gave way under his weight. With a shriek, he tumbled shoulder over knee down a slope of jagged rocks, landing against the curved wall of a mossy hollow.

 

A long, low howl echoed nearby.

 

Credence lay silently in the mud, quivering, not daring to even breathe as he tried, once again, to remember one of his childhood prayers. Cold, miserable things - there was no comfort to be found there.

 

The howls seemed nearer, harsh grating snarls among them, and within moments he recognized the thud of blunt-clawed feet - though it might have been his own heart, realizing his folly brought by terror, and beating frantically, as if by pumping every drop of blood through his veins within the seconds left to it, his life might be prolonged to it’s natural allotment.

 

Broken icicles rained from the knotty branches, as a great, gaunt wolf leapt into the little hollow. Black eyes glittered wickedly, set deep in it’s shaggy fur, and as it bared stained, broken fangs Credence only whimpered, too far lost to even recoil.

 

Something flooded to the forefront of his mind, a twisted maw filled with razor-like teeth, and the fresh blood dripping down a pale jawbone like spilled wine -

 

The animal crouched low, readying to pounce, and Credence’s eyes fluttered shut -

 

_“Înapoi!”_ a monstrous voice bellowed, as if it meant to reach the very tips of the mountain peaks, and though the sun had gleamed brightly only moments before, the sky was suddenly enrobed by black clouds.

 

The wolf did not cower away, as had it’s brother when confronted by Bruno on the first night - instead, it mewled as if injured, and pressed it’s belly to the muddy ground, shaking with fear.

 

Felled branches cracking beneath his feet, the prince lunged from the stone outcropping, a black riding cloak billowing from his wide shoulders like the wings of some enormous raven… or perhaps a bat.

 

Credence’s shallow breath caught hopelessly in his throat as a massive, gloved hand seized the wolf by the scruff, bearing it down as he had seen hound masters repress ill-mannered dogs in England. The creature whined and snuffled at first - with almost an air of penitence, he might have believed - but quieted within moments, and butted his furred head against the Prince’s forearm, no more fiercely than a lap dog.

The prince indulged the animal, caressing it’s ears with permissive fondness, and evidently satisfied that the wolf had sufficiently quieted, beckoned to Credence.

“Come.” he whispered, extending a hand, which the clerk, rising from the leafy ground plastered with mud and slush, accepted hesitantly and allowed himself to be guided closer. His fingers brushed the wet pelt, his breath shuddering, but the wolf gave no sign of it’s earlier animosity - only giving out a deep growl low in it’s throat, as if purring, and a long, wet tongue lashed at Credence’s naked wrist.

“I said they’d come to know you.” the prince murmured, prompting a quavering breath from the boy as he began stroking the furry, grey head with some greater aplomb, though his fingertips brushed now and again at the prince’s strong hands - if only to reassure himself of their presence.

 

 


End file.
